


Threes

by AlterEgon



Category: Napoleonic Era RPF
Genre: Gen, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlterEgon/pseuds/AlterEgon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning that their commanding officer is riding right into a trap, the Smiths set out to come to the rescue... mission accomplished, they find that returning back home may be a little more difficult than they had expected.</p><p>Warning because - not exactly GRAPHIC depictions of violence, but depictions of violence. Also, intended sexual assault that does not get to be carried out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silverfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverfox/gifts).



> Dear Silverfox,
> 
> I fear that this story got to be a little more about the Smiths than about John Colborne - I hope that you will enjoy it nevertheless.
> 
> The song quotes preceding each chapter are from "Threes", by Mercedes Lackey, with one tiny little change to better fit them into the setting.
> 
> Special thanks goes to Karanguni for agreeing to beta 23k+ words on short notice!

_Three things see no end:_

_A flower blighted ere it bloomed_

_A message that miscarries_

_And a journey that is doomed.._

 

1

They were in surprisingly good spirits for two men just returning from the battlefield. Riding double on a horse that looked mildly annoyed, though not excessively bothered, by the extra burden on its back, they were ambling into camp as if they had nothing to worry about at all.

"Too bad about your horse, Colonel," the younger man, riding in front, observed as he stopped the animal with a short tug at the reins.

The man behind him made a vague sound of agreement. "He was a good mount," he allowed.

Dismounting quickly and waiting for his red-jacketed companion to do the same, the first man grinned. "He was actually doing what you told him to, more often than not."

"I'm not that bad a rider, Smith," the older man growled with mock-annoyance.

"You're not? – Okay, maybe not!" Harry Smith turned away from his horse, only to find himself suddenly and violently embraced by a warm body that nested perfectly against his the moment they touched – about as perfectly as you could wish for if the person jumping on you to crush the wind out of your lungs was your own wife.

"Enrique," she breathed when he, laughing loudly now, carefully separated her from himself far enough to look at her. "I'm so glad you're back safely! I lost sight of you and for a moment I thought—"

"All is well," he assured her, biting back a remark about whether 'losing sight of him' meant that she had been within sight of the battle. His wife went where she would, and woe to the man who would not accept that. With a sidelong glance at his companion in arms, he added. "Well, almost. The Colonel here lost his horse."

As if only just realising the other officer's presence, the young woman disengaged herself from her husband to treat the blonde man to a hug that was only slightly less enthusiastic. "I'm so sorry, Colborne," she said. "He was such a good horse. He actually—"

"Did what I told him to, more often than not," Colborne finished for her. "Are the two of you _trying_ to embarrass me in front of my men?"

"I see none of your men in earshot," Harry laughed, twitching his darker jacket into place. "And it _is_ true."

A change of subject was in order. Colborne looked around, trying to find something suitably interesting quickly while the woman kissed him on the cheek.

Spanish by birth and education, Juana's enthusiasm and temper did not compare to those of English girls at all. The idea of what his own family– or what passed for it – back home would have had to say if _he_ had brought back a girl like her  - one who rode with the men, spoke freely what she thought, and easily kept up with the soldiers she travelled with in most areas of life –  made him grin.

"What are you so happy about now?" the girl's husband asked with mock-indignation. "And how about unhanding my wife?"

"Oh," Colborne said as he extricated himself from the young woman's arms, "I just thought about what my lady wife would have said if she had been here to witness this."

By now, several of the men in the camp had noticed their little group, looking on with obvious amusement.

"Harry, do you have nothing to do? I'm sure I can find my tent without your help." Though still amiable, Colborne's voice had acquired a hint of an edge. He had issued a request rather than a command, but he was ready to turn it into one.

Putting an arm around his wife's shoulders and taking his horse's reins with his free hand, Harry turned obediently. "Very well," he said. "Let us go and put away this precious mount, Juana, and then find ourselves some entertainment around the camp."

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

2

There was a lot to do in camp right after a return from battle. It seemed to take forever before Colborne could retire to his tent.

Something about the skirmishes they had recently had with the enemy was bothering him.

It wasn't that there was something obviously wrong with how things were going, but sheer dumb luck had saved them a few too many times for him to be comfortable with it. The enemy seemed to know just a bit too well where they were going to be, and when, and whether the numbers of their men were low enough to make an engagement interesting.

He had gotten lucky in that battle, grounded after his horse's untimely demise and saved by Harry cantering up to him and pulling him up just behind him. Fires breaking out here and there, spreading along the dry ground from dying plants set alight by the gunfire, did not bode well for anyone caught in the middle of it on foot.

They had come away well today, he had found. Most of their wounded were going to recover.

A twitch of the tent flap caught his attention.

"What is it?" he called out.

"A messenger, Colonel," the answer came presently.

Suppressing a sigh, Colborne got back up and stretched. He wasn't an old man by any measure, but tumbling to the ground along with his horse had definitely been easier ten years ago. These days, every bruise made itself felt.

"Send him in."

The door flap was pulled back, and a grimy, nervous looking man stumbled into the tent. Unshaven and apparently exhausted, he looked around uncertainly, all but trembling at being in the presence of an officer just like that.

"Well?" Colborne asked, taking care to make his voice sound friendly and soothing. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to tremble before _him_. In contrast to some, he took no pleasure at all in tormenting his men, or those of anyone else.

A hand was extended, a sealed letter held out to him. "I was given this." He spoke barely above a whisper.

Colborne mentally shook his head. The man was young, but too old for it to be likely that he was entirely new to this. There was no reason for him to be that timid. He wasn’t remotely high enough in rank to warrant that kind of awe. Though, to be fair, the messenger looked worn enough for fatigue to have played a decisive role in his reaction. And didn't _he_ know just exactly what exhaustion and sleep deprivation could turn a perfectly reasonable man into?

He accepted the letter graciously, nodding to the man. "Thank you," he said. "Do you need to take back an answer right away?"

The messenger shook his head.

"Then go and get something to eat and find a place to rest," Colborne ordered.

"Yes, Colonel," the cautious answer came before the soldier ducked out of the tent with a quick salute.

Colborne broke the seal on the letter, teasing out the page inside and browsing the lines.

His features hardened as he absorbed the words.

Stuffing envelope and letter into his pocket, he went in search for a fresh horse.

 

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

3

Juana enjoyed herself thoroughly. She liked to be busy, and keeping busy was never an issue at the camp. Presently, she was ladling out soup to the men.

Poor Colborne, she thought as she filled another bowl. He was so easily embarrassed, even though he tried not to let it show. But he blushed prettily.

Her own husband, alas, did not blush at all. It was one of his few shortcomings, really. He was all too willing to take anything she threw at him in stride –which may well have been due to long practice acquired by plenty of siblings trying to walk all over their elder brother.

Presently, he had taken his horse and his hounds and gone out hunting to put some extra treat on their own table – and that of anyone who cared to join them for the meal. Harry was not a man to sit still for long, even shortly after returning from battle. Especially not shortly after returning from battle, that was. Idleness was as unknown to him as embarrassment.

Well familiar with the men in the brigade, Juana noticed the strange face among the diners quickly, casting an inquiring glance at the man.

He looked dirty, exhausted and as though he had skipped a few too many meals recently.

Well, the latter at least she could remedy. Without further ado, she refilled his bowl and was treated to a thankful, albeit slightly wavering, smile for it.

"Thank you, ma'am," he followed up after a moment when she didn't go away again.

She knew that much English. With a gracious nod, she told him that he was welcome – an odd way to put a _de nada_ , but she assumed that the English language was going to hold more oddities than that as her grasp of it improved.

"You're new in camp," she observed, speaking Spanish now.

He gave her a blank look, muttering something under his breath that she assumed was supposed to mean that he didn't speak Spanish. She repeated her words in French, earning an apologetic shrug.

Ah, too bad then. She really needed to do something about her English, but there was so much else to do and most of the men here spoke at least one language that she was familiar enough with to converse in.

Gesturing, she tried to convey the idea that if he needed more, he had only to come to her and would get it, then left to be about her self-appointed task of taking care of the men she thought of as 'hers' by this time.

 

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah


	2. Chapter 2

_Of three things be wary:_

_Of a feather on a cat_

_The shepherd eating mutton_

_And the guardsman that is fat._

1

Once everyone had been fed, Juana made for the lines where the horses were picketed. She did not, strictly speaking, need to take care of her own horse. Nevertheless, she liked to stay on top of things. The beautiful animal was too precious for anything to be left to chance.

Accompanied by her small dog capering happily alongside, she picked her way through the camp, greeted by smiles and tipped hats where she went and returning nods of her own while listening with half an ear to any snippet of conversation that she could pick up without actually eavesdropping.

Tiny seemed happy enough, chewing on his food as if he, too, had been in battle earlier that day.

She wondered if he missed being ridden by a soldier, vowing to herself to make sure that, as long as he was her horse, he would get all the exercise he might want regardless.

She patted his silky neck and for a moment, Tiny paused in his meal to rub his muzzle against her affectionately. About to whisper silent endearments to the horse that probably would have brought a guffaw of laughter from most of the soldiers, had they heard her, Juana stopped short when she caught a glance of the strange soldier from earlier looking about furtively before disappearing into a tent.

If he had seen her – which wasn't all that likely, hidden by the horse as she was – he hadn't considered her a threat to whatever he was doing. And potential threats must have been what he had been checking for. He had had the air of a man out for secret business about him, business that may have well been on the other side of what was right.

Curiosity piqued, Juana silently made her way over to the tent that he had disappeared into as gracefully and noiselessly as would have done any lady proud in a ballroom.

Except that such a lady would hardly have been followed by a happy pug dog dancing along.

Even if she didn't understand his language very well yet, she might be able to glean something that was of interest in some other manner.

As it turned out, knowledge of English was not necessary, since the man had apparently developed a sudden expert grasp of Spanish since she had last seen him.

"—should be halfway there by now," he said, laughing an unpleasant, nasty laugh that made her blood run cold. "Let's see how he enjoys the treatment they're going to give him."

"You're one crazy bastard, walking into the Colonel's tent and letting him see your face and all," another voice replied. It was more familiar than the first – Juana was certain that she had heard it around – but not familiar enough to place it without the face to go with it.

She could almost hear the other man's shrug. "He never even looked at me, really. All he saw was that I was at the end of my strength, I'd ridden so hard and fast to get that message to him. " Laughter followed. "And now he's right on the way to where we want him. He'll get a fine, warm welcome, too, one way or the other."

"A sword to the throat and a pistol to the head, " the other voice replied. "Maybe he'll be fool enough to try and resist and we'll be rid of him for good. I've heard tell he may even be suspecting—"

Juana could hear the man move around inside, and footsteps nearing the tent entrance.

She scurried away from her eavesdropping spot, hoping to shrink back into the shelter between the horses in time not to be noticed. No one would find anything odd about seeing her visit Tiny.

She made it far enough away from the tent to appear to have just come from the main section of the camp when the flap was thrown aside and a middle-aged Spaniard came out. There was little about him that would have been outstanding or particularly noticeable.

He might have been one of the men taking care of the horses. Not one of the soldiers she counted among her friends, or even acquaintances, in any case.

Her body was trembling by the time she reached Tiny again.

The Colonel, they had said. That must have been Colborne. She'd seen Colborne ride out of the camp earlier, spurring on a horse taken from the spares as if he was on a very tight schedule.

They had been talking about … what? Luring him into a trap? Capturing, killing him?

She had to do something about that.

Thoughts racing, she contemplated her options, but no matter how much she turned the situation over in her mind, loth to waste even another minute, they always returned to one thing.

Enrique had to learn about this. He'd know what to do. He could go after Colborne, warn him… If anyone rode well enough to catch up, it was him.

Except that Enrique was out hunting right now, instead of being nicely at hand in the camp.

Squaring her shoulders, she came to a decision. There was no time to be lost, no one else she trusted to do the feat and reach the Colonel in time to warn him. So if Enrique was not around, she would have to go to him.

She hoisted Tiny's saddle onto his back. Curious as she was about anything in the camp, she had had the men show her how to saddle her own horse, even though usually he was brought to her bridled, saddled and ready to go. There was no time for ladylike conduct now.

Also, if she stopped moving even for a moment, her mind would willingly supply reminders that she did not even know how far away they had lured Colborne. For all she knew, he could already be in fetters – could already be dead, even.

No. Such thoughts would not do. They would not do at all.

Tiny accepted the bridle willingly, happy enough that his mistress was going to take him out unexpectedly. That horse loved a good run as much as she did. Well, run he would, in a moment.

With a quick check of the girth to make sure that she would not topple off, saddle and all, the moment they picked up speed, Juana picked up her dog, untied Tiny from the picket and led him out of the line just enough to mount. 

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

2

Harry was enjoying himself thoroughly. There was nothing like a good hunt to take his mind off of the recent battle, the carnage, the sounds and smells of that field, during and after.

Already, he had two hares slung across his saddle before him, and he was sighting on another as his companions, less fortunate than him just now, at only one kill each, were looking on.

His horse, well used to the antics of its rider when he was waving a rifle around, stood stock-still as he took aim and squeezed the trigger, barely twitching at the sound of his weapon.

Not that it helped any – his luck was out on this one.

"Well, Smith," one of the other men said with amusement in his voice, "even you can't hit every time."

"I didn't really want to hit that one," Harry claimed earnestly. "Got a feeling that's a mother on her way to the family, you know. Just wanted to warn her to stay in better cover next time."

They laughed at that as Harry readied his weapon for a new shot.

He waited, giving the his hounds time to uproot and chase out a new target.

"Eh, Smith? Look there."

Following an outstretched hand, he momentarily forgot all about the hunt when he saw the rider coming towards them at a full gallop. Though they were still too far away to make out details about the rider, Harry recognized Tiny easily even at that distance. If Tiny was racing towards them, the logical conclusion was that that was Juana perched on his back, spurring him on to greater speed.

They were a thing of beauty together, his wonderful young wife and his former horse, matched perfectly for all that many would say that Tiny was not a fit horse for a lady to ride. Juana, however, was not the kind of lady who would have settled for riding a docile mount at all. It had been hard enough to keep her on a more placid animal while she was still learning to master a horse! If she had had her way, she would have gone up on Tiny her first day in the saddle.

He could tell the moment she spotted them by the deft correction of direction, horse and mistress suddenly coming directly at them instead of merely heading vaguely in their direction. Harry couldn't help but grin proudly as he watched. She never even slowed down for it.

Neither did she when she neared them. Instead, she reined in Tiny just in time to come to a hard, jarring stop perfectly next to Harry's own horse.

Her face was flushed, and she sounded slightly out of breath as she spoke, just as if she had shared the horse's effort.

Tiny seemed entirely content after the headlong dash. If anything , the horse appeared to be slightly put off about having to interrupt his race just when he had been going so nicely.

"Enrique!" Juana blurted out in a rush of Spanish. "You've got to come right away. There are traitors in camp and they lured Colborne out with a fake message, and he's riding into their trap. They said they wanted to capture or kill him, or capture and kill him, and we've got to do something about that!"

Her words tumbled all over each other, and Harry needed a second to sort them out.

"How do you know this?" he asked finally.

She shifted impatiently in her saddle. "I overheard them talking and I know Colborne left because I saw him ride out of camp. Enrique – he's got such a head start, by the time anyone would be ready to go after him he's sure to be caught already!"

Her eyes were blazing with concern and indignation. She considered the brigade her family, and she held a special sort of affection for Colborne, maybe as for an older brother.

Harry felt not quite unlike that about the man. He considered the information, his thoughts somersaulting around his head like unruly puppies.

"You're certain of this?" he asked stupidly, almost shrinking from the fiery look he received in retaliation for the inane suggestion that she might not be entirely certain of what she had heard.

He wheeled his horse with a hard hand on the rein, lingering just long enough to drop his prey in his companion's arms. "Those are mine, don't you forget about that!" he warned him. "Juana, what direction did he go in? I'll try to catch up with him."

"Smith, you better come back to camp with us and assemble a few men…" came a suggestion from his friend.

Sensible it might be, but useless right now.

"No time," he objected. "By the time I can have some men together, he'll be even farther from the camp than he is now, and there's no telling where they're waiting for him. Also, more men would only slow me down. You can put together a few good men and send them after me, just in case, though!"

He turned to his wife. "Juana, love, take these two back to camp, will you? I'll come back as soon as I can – with Colborne."

With that, he spurred his horse into a gallop and raced off into the direction that Juana had indicated, bent low over his horse's neck as if he was riding a race.

And in a way he was, except that the prize was not a cup or a purse, but the safety and possibly the life of his commanding officer and friend.

Juana looked after him, then took in the two other men, who were turning their horses homewards now.

"You'll find back on your own, I trust," she told them as she wheeled Tiny and, without waiting for an answer, gave him free rein and a little encouragement with the riding crop to take off after her husband.

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

3

Colborne had cantered out of the camp, but was soon forced to slow down to a trot. The road did not lend itself to a faster speed, and he'd never arrive anywhere near in time if his horse broke a leg along the way.

In contrast to Harry Smith, who had probably been able to ride before he had learned to walk, Colborne was not an expert horseman. He could ride well enough, but that natural confidence that Smith exuded on horseback and that Juana was so rapidly developing eluded him. The only riding instruction he had ever had had consisted in another officer shoving the reins in his hand and telling him to mount up and follow.

While Harry had been very much exaggerating when he had suggested that Colborne couldn't get a horse to do his bidding, he nevertheless hoped that the horse he had blindly picked from among the spares was not one of the kind that Smith would greatly enjoy riding. That man liked his mounts on the lively side, and did not mind having to debate which member of the pair was in charge at all.

Colborne had never seen him thrown, though he assumed that Harry had taken many a fall before he had learned to stick in the saddle like that. That had probably come long before he had ever become an officer, though. Now he was known as a masterful rider among the men, and the Colonel could only hope that _he_ was not known as 'the officer who fell off'. He certainly was known to have taken falls before, and the limitations imposed on him by his injury did nothing to improve the situation. A stiff shoulder was not helpful in handling the reins, and in a charge left him with the choice of either foregoing accurate control on his horse, or charging with his sword held… well, not where the men following him were expecting to see it.

Right now, however, the sword was safely in its sheath on his belt and the reins firmly in his left hand, which meant that he had absolutely no excuse to offer to himself when his horse suddenly and unexpectedly jerked forward as if hit – except that there had not been any shot.

The horse fought to keep its footing, and the reins were wrenched from Colborne's hand just before he felt himself lose contact with his saddle. He tumbled unceremoniously to the ground, rolling over his good shoulder and surging to his feet --

\--only to have them swept out from under him again by an expert kick from behind.

He twisted around, suddenly and inexplicably finding that the point of a sword was pressed against the hollow of his throat.

Looking up along the length of steel, hardly daring to breathe, he saw a uniformed figure looming over him, sword extended in the firm and yet relaxed grip of one used to handling the weapon.

Colborne's heart sank when he realised that all insignia had been removed from the man's attire. Not a soldier then, not with any of the armies currently travelling the countryside here. Someone who had appropriated military clothing or, more likely if the man's familiarity with the blade was any indication, a deserter.

In any case, he could not rely on being treated honourably as a prisoner of war, exchanged for someone else in good condition. The Lord only knew what a deserter would end up doing with him.

"Now look here," the man with the sword drawled in French, "looks like we've caught ourselves an officer."

Footsteps neared, and a second person appeared in Colborne's field of vision.

"Not just any officer," he said. "That's Colborne himself if I'm not mistaken."

"Is that so?" the first returned. "Well, it was time for a lucky break anyway." The pressure of the sword point increased momentarily, then was lifted off, even though the weapon was still pointed in his direction.

"Are you?" the man asked in heavily accented English. "Are you Colborne?"

"No," Colborne tried to lie, gaining a kick in the ribs for it from the second man.

He bit his lip, refusing to say anything more for the time being.

More men were appearing now, and as he glanced at them he saw two pistols trained steadily at him. They were all wearing defaced uniforms, some Spanish, some French and some English. Wonderful. He had gotten himself into a nice fix there, riding unsuspectingly into a nest of deserters.

Greedy hands relieved him of his own weapons, and within seconds, Colborne found himself threatened with his own pistol in addition to those already in the possession of those men.

"Get up," the man with the sword ordered harshly.

Not intending to get shot on the spot, Colborne scrambled to his feet, hands held out to not give them any excuse to kill or cripple him. While he was unhurt, he had a chance to get away once an opening presented itself. All he had to do was look out for that very opening and use it when it came.

His horse, he could see, was back on its feet again, if it had even ever fully gone down at all. From where he was standing, he also noticed the length of rope stretched taut across the road, low enough to be easily missed from horseback but just high enough to snare a horse's foot and trip the animal – or at the very least, create enough of a diversion and occupy the rider to give them a chance to apprehend him.

"And what," he asked slowly, his voice as calm as if he was just about to sit down for tea with his wife, "are you going to do with me, now that you have caught me?"

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah


	3. Chapter 3

_Three things are most perilous:_

_The shape that walks behind_

_The ice that will not hold you_

_And the spy you cannot find._

 

1

Colborne found himself shoved forward, away from the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his horse's reins were picked up by one of the deserters.

"First, we stash you safely away," he was told. "Then we'll sell you to whichever side will offer more.  And if none of them make a satisfactory offer…"

The cold, cruel smirk on the man's face should have made Colborne's blood run cold, but he was already deeply immersed in that deep calm that came over him when the situation got dire, enabling him to think without the fog of fear or uncertainty clouding his mind and his judgement.

Of course he would be ransomed by his people. He had no doubt of that.

He merely did not wish a group of rogues to make money using him.

There was, of course, also the matter of that letter. He hadn't been on the road for a pleasure ride, after all. He needed to find an opening to get back on his horse and out of here, and quickly.

For the moment, however, all that he could do was go along with his captors, giving them as little cause to remain alert around him as possible, while observing as much as he, in turn, could.

They led him into a small ravine, not too far from the road, where a makeshift camp was set up. It was easy to defend – that much he could see on first glance. With their backs and sides covered by the cliff of the mountainside, they needed to guard only in one direction. Of course, this very spot could also turn into a deadly trap for those set up in it, but unless they were stupid, they would have made sure that they had a getaway plan. The entire setup didn't suggest that the men who had been at work here had been stupid. They probably had either a path up the mountain face, well covered and concealed, or a narrower passage somewhere, equally well concealed. The latter was more probable, since he assumed they would not want to leave without their horses, and horses were not exactly known to be climbing mountains like that easily.

Unless he happened to come across any of those, however, Colborne would have to make his escape down the obvious route, back to the road while crossing all that space easily visible from the camp and offering no protection whatsoever from the rifle of even a mediocre armsman.

He counted six men, all in all, unless the two patched tents hid more. They had three horses among them that he could see, picketed close to the cliff.

His own mount was led over there without any further ado. It was greeted with ears laid back and teeth bared, a hoof raised ready to strike. The rogue's horses seemed no more pleased to have an intruder in their corner than he was to be treated to a visit to this camp to begin with.

Colborne's horse reacted in suit, snapping at the horse next to him and receiving a slap across the muzzle from the rogue who was tying it up before unsaddling it.

The saddle was thrown where other tack rested against the side of one tent already, just as Colborne's guide twisted his captive's left arm onto his back and yanked at the right one for the same effect.

"Hey!" Colborne yelped, an insuppressible note of pain ringing in his voice. "Stop that – that arm doesn’t move that way."

As a matter of fact, that shoulder didn't move at all, the bone fused solidly after months upon months with a ball stuck in it. There was no way they could pull his hand onto his back unless they broke or dislocated his elbow – and from the way it felt, there wasn't much missing for that. Judging by the iron grip of those hands, the man probably even had the strength to do it.

"Too bad for you," his captor hissed into his ear, increasing pressure.

Colborne shifted into the direction he was being pulled in, trying to relieve a little of the painful strain on his joints.

"Miguel, stop it." An English voice, from a man in a formerly English uniform.

Colborne's mouth twitched as he looked at the man from guarded eyes. No, not one he recognised. The man sounded like he expected to be obeyed, though, and he was. The grip on his arm loosened, if only a little. He could still feel the strain of a joint being pushed against its natural direction, as well as the pull on tendons and ligaments on his abused left arm, but the sharp pain preceding imminent damage was gone.

The Englishman strutted up to him, looking him over with a haughty manner, his attitude all the more impressive because Colborne was easily half a head taller than him.

"Colborne." He stated coldly.

"Colonel Colborne," Colborne corrected calmly, as if he was not currently being held in check by a man with a wrestler's build and a death-grip on his upper limbs. "And you are?"

With a sneer, the former English soldier turned, just as if he considered it far beneath him to even acknowledge that Colborne had spoken to him. Then, without warning, he whirled, his hand shooting up and connecting with the Colonel's face, hard.

Colborne's head flew back, and he would have lost his balance if not for Miguel's firm grasp holding him up. He tasted blood.

As he carefully probed the inside of his mouth with the tip of his tongue to determine the extent of damage done, he kept his eyes carefully on the man in front of him.

"You will speak when spoken to," he announced coldly. "And you will answer what asked and leave it at that."

With raised eyebrows and a serene smile, Colborne half-inclined his head, indicating that he had heard.

Satisfied, the Englishman stepped back.

"Tie his hands in front if you must," he ordered, then, just as Colborne was about to breathe a silent sigh of relief, added: "and shoot him in the foot so he can't run."

Disregarding the earlier order, Colborne spoke up again. "What if I give you my word as an officer that I will not try to run?"

The icy stare he got for it told him all he needed to know. No, his word as an officer was not going to be nearly enough to convince them. Too bad. He wouldn't have believed himself either, in their place, though.

The other man's smile never touched those steely eyes of his. "You would, wouldn't you?" he said. "Very well, give us your officer's word that you won't run. I'll just make sure you also keep it. Wouldn't want you to break your word after all, would be now?"

He drew his pistol and cocked it, pointing it down, ready to fire.

Colborne forced himself not to close his eyes as he set his jaw firmly and shifted his weight to rest on the foot that was not being targeted. No matter what, he would not give those men the satisfaction of hearing him scream when he was hit. No matter what they did to him, he at least had the certainty that he had been through worse, suffered worse before than what they might think up to put him through.

The hardest part, he thought, was forcing himself not to allow the images his brain all too readily supplied, of pistol wounds suffered at close distance, torn and eventually amputated limbs, military careers severely impaired or ended. Men dead from gangrene spreading out from wounds gone untreated for too long.

He met his countryman's eyes evenly, as calmly as if the idea of having a pistol ball lodged in his body mere moments from now was no reason for concern on his part at all.

2

Harry flew down the road, bent low over his horse's neck. He tried to not think of the fact that he had no idea where Colborne had gone, really. Down that road, yes, but then? He could have turned off of it anywhere.

Still, all that he could do now, the only hope that he had, was to keep going. The destination had to have seemed sensible, or the Colonel would have been more suspicious about it.

So maybe there was a hope that wherever he had been lured to was along that road, or not too far off of it.

He didn't even know what horse Colborne had taken, and hoping that it was one that left distinctive hoof prints if verging off the road for whatever reason as futile.

Though, he thought with a grim smile, the fact that it might verge off of the road from time  to time, was not. Colborne's easy-going way worked well with his men – you would have been hard pressed to find a commander more beloved by his soldiers than Colborne was – but with horses, his charm failed.

The road was in a worse condition than he would have liked for the speed that he was going at, and he twitched the reins, touched a spur to his horse's side just enough for a slight adjustment of direction, aiming for the grass by the side of the road rather than the cracked dirt that was baked so hard that it might as well have been stone.

He felt his horse's muscles bunch and stretch under him with every stride, enjoying the powerful animal's movements in spite of the direness of the situation. Nevertheless, he wished he had thought to ask Juana to trade mounts. Tiny would have been just a little bit faster than this stallion, he believed.

Hoof beats behind him startled him. Someone was racing down the path after him, gaining on him – slowly but steadily.

Without throwing his horse off balance in the least, he turned his head just enough to glance behind—

—and groaned. He had told Juana to return to the camp, but as he had already observed once on this day, his wife went where she would.

Presently, she was going down the same road that he was. They were a thing of beauty, Juana and her Tiny. The girl was light enough to not impair the horse much in spite of the side-saddle being unsuitable for racing. She held herself in it as well as could be expected – in fact, Harry had never seen a woman ride like that before. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have just forgotten about all decorum and taught her to ride astride. The things she would probably be able to do with a horse if not hampered by that sideways position…

He did not slow down, did not call out to her, or wave, or otherwise acknowledge that he had seen her. Instead, he returned to his racing posture, streamlined along his horse's neck, and charged on, trusting that she would catch up with him in her – or Tiny's – own time. He feared that she had not come after him to offer him the faster horse, however.

No, his young wife had most certainly come to play an active role in the Colonel's rescue. Not because she didn't trust him to do the feat, but because she worried about Colborne as much as he did, because she couldn't bear the thought of sitting idly in camp while he was trying to save the day.

And maybe, just a little, Harry was even glad that she was there. With him.

Back in camp, that was where the traitors were. If they heard, if the other men talked – and talk they would, after all they were going to assemble a group to go after him, wouldn't they? – they would get wind of the situation, and if word got out just who had warned them…

Worse still, they didn't even know if there weren't more than those two she had seen. A threat to her could have come from someone entirely unexpected.

No, Harry Smith was quite happy to know that Juana was not back in camp, where she might have been cornered by them.

The dangers that might be waiting for them on the road were something  he did not let himself contemplate.

Judging by the enthusiastic gallop  behind him, Tiny, for one, was fully enjoying himself.

Harry decided that the best thing to do at this point was to take his example and give himself fully to the exhilarating feeling of the rush of the air past him and the thundering of hooves below him, abandoning thought of ifs and whens for the moment.

3

James Malloy let his dust-streaked horse amble down the road at a leisurely page. He was in no hurry to speak of – not anymore. Quite the opposite, really.

He was riding along with the satisfaction of a job well done, the reward underway. His superiors would be pleased. Hopefully, this act that no one else could have pulled off as well as he had would convince them that he was fully, squarely on their side on the game.

His dust-streaked horse snorted unwillingly as he pulled on the rein to keep it from nosing a low-hanging branch from a lone tree. It was dry and brittle anyway, like everything  out here was at the moment.

Colborne should be close to his destination by now. That was, if he hadn't fallen into other, still more unpleasant hands than those waiting for him at the rendezvous-point according to his letter, forged masterfully by a soldier in the French ranks who had once made more of a living with that kind of work than with his actual profession.

Malloy was fully aware of the small rogue encampment along the road that he had sent Colborne on. He had never talked to the men, but he was quite certain that, given half a chance, they might make use of the sudden gift of an English officer, even if he was only a Lieutenant-Colonel, dropped into their very laps.

He didn't worry much about what his boss would say if Colborne ended up dead or detained by their hands instead of his own. He had wanted the man out of the way after one of their contacts in Colborne's camp had mentioned that his commanding officer had started to get suspicious about the timing of some of the attacks.

Anything that led to having the man replaced, at least temporarily, would make them happy.

Yes, James Malloy was fully satisfied with himself. He started whistling a jaunty tune in time with the clop-clop of his horse's shod hooves on the hard earth below.

This was going to be the first day of his new life. Maybe he should be taking on a French name if he was joining their ranks in any kind of interesting position. James Malloy was quite too obviously English and would merely inhibit his career, he was almost certain of that.

Not Jean, though. Jean was, as far as he was concerned, a girl's name and there was nothing effeminate about himself, no sir.

Still keeping up his merry whistling, he turned his protesting horse down the fork in the road that Colborne must have taken before him, keeping out a careful eye for any piquets the deserters may have posted to watch the road. He had no intention of getting himself into a fix along with Colborne.


	4. Chapter 4

_Three things hold a secret:_

_The lady riding in a dream_

_The dog that sounds no warning_

_And the maid who does not scream_

 

1

"Enrique! STOP!" Juana's voice sounded breathless, as if she was running along with her horse. He turned to look and spotted her a good way behind him already, as his own horse had plodded on, no longer a the same full-out gallop but still at a good canter, while she had yanked down on Tiny's reins, stopping the hose nearly instantly.

Presently, she was clinging on to his mane, rearranging himself in her saddle after the sudden halt.

He wheeled his horse without a care that he probably left spur tracks on its flanks, galloping back to where his wife was waiting. What had happened now? Tiny hadn't suddenly balked at going on, had he? That wasn't like him. It wasn't like Juana to permit it.

But why in the world would she stop in the middle of the road just like that?

He reined in his horse next to hers, foam flying from its muzzle to soak into the ground and dry up in no time at all.

"What's wrong, Juana?" he asked, sharper than he had intended. He had no time for any kind of nonsense now.

She pointed back the way they had come from.

"That rider we passed, just a few moments ago? That was the messenger – and he went down that fork back there!"

Her hand waved wildly in the air.

"What?" Harry wiped sweaty hair from his face with the back of one hand. "Why didn't you say so before? You could have told me!"

"I tried to!" she yelled at him. "You wouldn't listen! I had to _make_ you listen."

By stopping and making him come back to her, because she'd known he wouldn't just leave her back in the middle of nowhere. Clever girl.

And stupid man, he berated himself. He hadn't paid a great deal of attention to Juana, trusting in her to stay on Tiny and by his side, and focussed all of his mind on the road before him, scanning it for the tell-tale hint of red that was Colborne's jacket. At least the man's uniform was nice and flashy – not that it had helped them any so far.

He spotted movement among Juana's skirts and nearly groaned when he saw the flattened nose of the little pug dog with her unspeakably silly collar peek out from between the folds of cloth.

Juana had not only come along on this chase, she had also had Vittoria in the saddle with her all along. That was, as such, not unusual. His wife was wont to go riding with the pug nestled into her skirts.

Right now, it just meant that another variable had been added.

"Keep a good hand on that dog," he cautioned, unable to bite back the comment entirely.

Juana bristled, ready to throw fiery insults at him for the implied slight.

A quick wave of his hand cut her off. "Colborne," he said. "If that was the messenger, we better catch up with him, and quickly!"

Eye flashing, she held her peace, though he was certain that he would hear plenty about this later, in camp. Oh, if only they returned with Colborne well and unharmed, he'd take anything she'd hurl at him, be it words or crockery, and he'd do so with a smile!

As one, they turned their horses and, keeping to a trot now, rode back to turn down the fork the woman had indicated.

The horses were thankful for the respite. Much as they enjoyed being able to stretch their legs, this race in the heat had gone on too long for their tastes.

"There, see?" Juana nodded ahead of them, where Harry could see a red jacket topped by black hair, mounted on top of a small horse.

"Let's go get him," Harry growled, ready to spur his horse forward and stalled by Juana's sudden hand on his reins.

"Enrique, don't you think that if he sees you he will know that something is amiss?"

He probably would, too. Harry thought, fast.

His wife was faster. "Let me ride first. He only saw me briefly, maybe he will not even be able to place me. I can distract him, and then you can come up and apprehend him. How does that sound?"

It sounded horrible. It sounded like the worst idea he had heard in a long time.

Ever, even.

Unfortunately, it also sounded like the one thing that might actually work.

They were riding horses exhausted from a long run already. He could feel the trembling of muscles under him. Those horses would require excellent care once they got back, and quite some rest. The alleged messenger ahead of him was ambling along at a comfortable slow trot, and had been when they had raced right past him as well – Harry actually remembered seeing him turn onto the other road just as they had passed him – though he had not paid him much attention anymore once he had determined that the man in the red jacket did not have Colborne's blonde curls and therefore was not the man they were looking for.

If that traitor caught wind of what was going on, all he would have to do was spur his horse into a gallop, and he would probably be off and all they'd ever see of him again would be that dust cloud he'd be leaving behind.

"Be careful," Harry was about to caution, only to realise that he was talking to thin air.

Juana and Tiny were trotting down the road already, Juana arranging her skirts and cocking her hat just so with one hand as she went, just as if she wasn't sitting on a lady's palfrey instead of her spirited Spanish steed.

2

Juana caught up with the messenger later than she would have liked, but galloping up to him was not an option. She had glanced back only once, making sure that Enrique was following her at an appropriate distance and did not need to be told to stay back farther.

There was a certain hope that the fake messenger would not recognise her from their earlier meeting. She had been just another girl working in the mess to him then, probably not worth paying enough attention to remember her face. Uneducated, since she spoke Spanish only in an English camp. The hat she usually wore outside but had, of course, not had any reason to put on in the mess tent, covered much of her hair and shaded her face.

She put on the haughtiest expression that she could muster. Let him see someone who would never lower herself to dish out stew to mere soldiers. A lady discontent with her situation. She needed an excuse to be on the road on her own. Someone of her standing should have been accompanied at least by a servant or guard or two, if not by her husband, father or brother.

She had had a plan forming in her head even as she had made the suggestion to Harry, though.

Now it was time to see if she could be sufficiently convincing.

One thing that she did not allow herself to consider was the possibility that he recognised her from when they had shot past him earlier. Again, she didn't think he had been paying attention. He had just turned to the side to leave the main road, and he would have had no reason to goggle at the two madmen racing past at breakneck speed. Also, she hoped that he would have refused to believe that a woman would partake in that kind of a race, and helpfully imagined that it had been two men he had seen.

Another bend in the road, and she'd be upon him.

She swerved to the side as if to overtake the man, who was still ambling along on his horse in good spirits, for all the world unconcerned with having to get anywhere.

He glanced over at her, and to her satisfaction, she saw no recognition on his face, no wariness, not even a guarded look that suggested he was feeling any kind of need for caution. He merely tipped an imaginary hat at her and interrupted his whistling for a moment.

Ha! She knew the words to that tune as well as any soldier in their camp. He didn't need to fall silent on account of her delicate nerves!

It was well enough, though.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," she said in French. She would not speak Spanish to him if she could help it, fearing to trigger a memory of another Spanish-speaking girl he had met earlier that day.

Her complexion was still light enough for her to actually pass as French, too, courtesy to the hat that she wore to shield her skin from the sun.

He looked at her then, with a hint of surprise. "Mademoiselle," he said.

"Madame," she corrected, an aloof note in her voice that suggested that she would not forgive the slight easily. "I was wondering if you could tell me how far it is to the next civilised settlement."

His brow creased. Quite obviously, he was wondering if she was not aware that she was riding through country torn by war. Yes, let him think she was a stupid little wife unaware of the dangers of the countryside during these times. Let him perceive her as anything but a threat, or even a potential one.

"May I inquire about your destination, Madame?" he asked cautiously instead of answering.

His French was halting, heavily accented, but understandable.

Barely.

That was well enough as far as she was concerned. The worse his French, the less likely he was to pick up on the fact that _hers_ wasn't unaccented either, much less to place the accent.

She made an annoyed 'ph' sound, as if she considered the question a personal insult, then answered with a tone that suggested that she did so merely out of a graciousness that he did not, in fact, deserve: "Paris. I am entirely fed up with this horrible place! My husband, he claimed that he could not bear to be parted from me and bid me follow him, but oh – the horrible, horrible life in those dirty camps, and those brutes of men with no decorum at all! I do not care for what he is going to do or not, but _I_ am going home, and now. I will not stay for another moment in the company of those … those… savages!" She ground out the last word with an emphasis that would have made her laugh, had it come from anyone else.

Privy to the complaints of plenty of officer's wives, she was stringing together a few, hoping to convey the image of an annoyed, though slightly stupid, girl, possibly dragged along by her husband so as to save on the cost of maintaining a wife at home and a mistress in the baggage train. Grown up too sheltered to realise the dangers she was putting herself through, not wise enough in the  ways of war to know better than to approach a random man on the road. Relying entirely on the fact that her gender would protect her, when in reality, Juana knew very well that that was the last thing it would do. If she had actually been that girl and actually approached a random soldier like this, she would have been more likely to find herself pulled off of her horse and raped than be given directions.

Or sent right in the direction of his allies so that they could have their fill of her as well, seeing how she was apparently too stupid to have realised she had been turned around and riding in the wrong direction for a while, since she was now _behind_ the French lines.

The soldier gave her a look that told her he was just now considering all of that and more.

3

Colborne stood his ground with an air of bravery that he did not feel at all. In fact, somewhere deep inside him he was terrified of what was going to happen. He did not, however, permit himself to actually admit to that emotion, or to react to it.

Later, when everything was over, in the safety and solitude of his own tent, if he was certain that no one would barge in – then he might let it all catch up with him, but until then he was going to remain that same calm, controlled commanding officer that his men knew him as – even though none of his men were present now.

The finger on the trigger twitched, but not quite enough to pull it, just before the man wielding the pistol looked up and shifted his stance slightly, looking at a point well behind Colborne now.

A moment later, he could hear the hooves of a horse coming nearer, the pattern sounding out a rapid trot.

He didn't try to turn – he was still held hard enough to know that it was futile to even try, and he would not give Miguel the opportunity to gloat at his inability to free himself from his grasp. At this moment, the only thing that would keep him from being handled like a doll, or to still have a bone or two broken for him, was to not try to move against the man.

The rider approached and came to a stop just off to the side of their group.

Colborne turned his head to look at him.

He was an older man, his hair and beard already grey. The clothes he wore had never been a uniform, but he seemed to command respect among the men anyway.

"What's this?" he demanded harshly.

"Merely making sure this _prisoner_ will not run off and rejoin his men without our say so," the Englishman replied, taking aim with the pistol again. "It would be too bad if we tried to sell him and had to go back on a bargain because he was gone."

The older man dismounted with a flourish. "Are you crazy?" he asked. "You can't walk into a camp and offer to sell them back their officer. They'll arrest you before you have said two words!"

The two men's eyes met with a clash that Colborne thought should have been audible. There was not much love lost between them, he could tell.

"Of course I wasn't going to just ride into their camp and sell him!" The Englishman said. "I'd've sent one of our French friends there and one of us to the French, to see who makes us the better offer. I'm not _that_ stupid!"

As he spoke, the pistol's muzzle twitched up.

"Please," Colborne said calmly as he saw his finger tremble on the trigger in ill-repressed fury at the other man. "Keep that thing down. You were going to shoot me in the foot, not the stomach."

Though wouldn't that keep him from running effectively?

Of course it would also keep him from _living_.

"Quite the impertinent prisoner you have there," the older man observed. "Keep a tighter leash on him."

Colborne felt Miguel's hands tighten on his arms another fraction.

He felt his body tensing and forced himself to relax against the reflex. He was less likely to take damage if he didn't try to oppose the pressure.

"Are you saying I don't know how to handle a prisoner?" the Englishman bristled. "Are you saying—"

"I am saying," the other man interrupted him, "keep a tighter leash on your prisoner before he smart-talks any of ours into joining his side. Unless I am very much mistaken, that man has a reputation for inspiring… a certain loyalty even in the most unlikely men."

With a silent half-smile, Colborne acknowledged the compliment, backhanded as it may have been at that moment.

He was ignored. Maybe that was for the best, too.

The two men were facing off. Hierarchies seemed to be a little unclear among them – hardly surprising, Colborne thought. There was a good chance that these were men who had trouble with hierarchy to begin with. 

He kept a very close eye on the dynamics between the two. Every bit of information might be helpful at some point. No matter what, he had no intention at all of being sold back to his people – or the French for that matter.

Oh, had he been taken captive _by_ the French, he would have gone calmly as a prisoner of war, as he would have expected any French officer to do if he had been the one doing the capturing.

These men, however, were no soldiers anymore. They were criminals and he owed them nothing, least of all the courtesy that any one officer was due from any other, no matter the side they were on.

A cool wind caressed the back of his neck, drying off sweat.

It was the first breath of air that was not hot and stifling. Stale air in motion was still stale air – a truth that any Spanish summer would quickly teach.

Colborne raised his eyes to the sky.

There, the unrelenting blue was finally broken by the first wisps of cloud.

At least the weather seemed to finally be on his side.


	5. Chapter 5

_Three things never anger or you will not live for long:_

_A wolf with cubs_

_A man with power_

_And a woman's sense of wrong_

 

1

Juana kept her eyes on the messenger, no matter how much she would have loved to glance back along the road. She did not want to give him a reason to follow her glance and see Enrique approaching on them.

For he must have been approaching by now.

She strained her ears, trying to make out the hoof beats on the hard-packed road, but could not.

What was that man up to, taking so long?

"Monsieur," Juana said. "Please. Won't you at least tell me where exactly I am right now and point me in the right direction? My horse is fast, I am certain that if I hurry I can—"

He cut her off. "Madame, you cannot go on alone. This country is much too dangerous for a lone woman travelling without any protection. If you will allow me, I will escort you to safety. I have but to finish delivering a message. You may come with me, and once I have taken care of this small matter, we can be off and I will not only point you the way but guide you precisely where you need to go."

Nice words, but Juana knew exactly would have happened if she had been that woman – who would certainly have been naïve and foolish enough to agree.

Enrique, where in the world are you?, she wondered mutely. I could really need you here now.

To avoid dropping her assumed role, she gave the man a sweet smile. "Thank you, Monsieur," she told him. "That is most kind of you. I did not think that I would find such gallantry among a man in uniform. My husband…" she trailed off, letting him think what he would.

"Your husband, Madame, is a brute, it appears," he filled in for her, "if he would drag such a lovely creature as you are into war and expose her to all the hardships and deprivations. It is right that you have left him, and I will do all that I can to see you to safety."

Only if that safety was in his bed, most likely. She was just considering how to get out of this situation again when, finally, she heard an approaching horse. It came from the _other_ direction, however, towards them instead of nearing from behind.

She looked, the sound a valid reason for raising her eyes and checking out the oncoming rider.

Enrique must have left the road to ride all the way around them and was now coming right at them, not sparing a single glance for her as he steered his horse off to the side to pass by the messenger opposite of where Juana was.

Then, with one deft twitch of his reins, he brought his horse to a full, sudden stop at precisely the moment that he reached out with his other hand and grabbed the messenger's reins.

Flustered, the man tried to spur his horse forward out of reflex, if nothing else, only to find that the hand on his bridle was not budging.

The horse tried tossing its head, as its captor yanked.

"His pistol," he hissed at Juana, who had already had the same idea and was reaching for it, pulling it out of the man's belt before he could think to reach for it himself. She cocked it as she has seen the men do, hoping that she did not betray that she had no idea what she was doing with it.

"What is this? A holdup?" their captive asked plaintively. "I have nothing of value on my person! Who are you, Monsieur?" He was still speaking French, apparently assuming that Enrique was Juana's companion in crime.

"That, Senor," Juana switched to Spanish, "is the brute of my husband. Now sit still before you startle me into shooting this."

The threat was understood. The man went still.

"It's not valuables that we want," Enrique added, speaking the same language. "It is information."

"I know nothing!" the man assured him.

He was going to say more, but the cold, steely look from Enrique's eyes silenced him.

"Earlier today, you delivered a message to Colonel Colborne. It told him that he was to go someplace and so he did. That letter was forged and supposed to lure him into a trap. We know that much. What we want to know is, where did it send him?"

Their captive squirmed. "I have no idea what you are talking about!" he claimed.

Enrique nodded towards Juana. "My wife and I have had a very hard ride today," he said. "She is fatigued. I see her hand is already trembling on your pistol. That is a heavy pistol, I can see that from here even. She may end up twitching or clenching her hand on the trigger, and I would be surprised if she missed you at this distance," he pointed out. "Now, if I was you, I wouldn't draw this encounter out any longer than I had to."

Juana smiled a tight, cold smile. Of course she was no such thing and would do no such thing. But the other man did not need to know that. Enrique was playing for effect, and it seemed to be working, since she could see the messenger grow more and more nervous as he glanced at her, then back to her husband.

"I am asking you again," he said. "Where did you send him?"

His swallow was audible.

Juana let go of the reins with her left to steady the right with the weapon, as if she had quite some difficulty keeping it steady.

He winced and, finally, spoke, his words coming in a rush. "The French encampment. But he may never have arrived there to begin with. There's a nest of deserters along this road, off to the right. They probably got him and made sure he never arrived. That's all I know and now tell her to put my pistol down!"

2

Harry nodded at his wife. "Juana," he said, trusting to her to understand what he meant.

She did. Instead of lowering the pistol, her grip on it became more confident.

Good girl! He really needed to teach her to actually use one of those one day soon, just in case! You could never know when it would come in handy in this kind of region.

There was some hard and fast thinking to be done on Harry's side now. They couldn't very well let the messenger go. They couldn't take him along either. And yet—

"Get off of that horse," Harry ordered. "We'll leave you here, tied into a nice little parcel, and come back for you when we have found Colborne – and you had better pray that we will find him alive and well!"

The messenger paled another fraction, if that was even possible.

Closed in as he was between the two others, it would have been hard for him to dismount in the first place. Harry moved his horse back a pace, releasing his grip on the reins just a bit as he did so.

Spotting a chance – possibly the only one he would ever get – the messenger applied his spurs to the side of his horse, suddenly and hard.

The animal surged forward, the reins slipping from Harry's grasp.

He swore emphatically, mixing English, Spanish and French for better effect, and whipped out his own pistol.

One shot split the hot afternoon.

The messenger's horse reared, dropping its burden before it veered off of the road and raced away.

Rubbing a hand that was developing blisters where reins pulled through his fingers too fast had burned it against his jacket, Harry rode over and prodded at the prone figure with his sword.

With a shrug, he returned to Juana.

"I guess we won't have to come back for him anymore," he announced, trying to sound casual. "Let us go looking for those deserters, and if they don't have them we'll have to press on."

He sighed. At this point, he really hoped that they had Colborne, and hadn't harmed him yet. After the time they had lost catching and questioning their messenger, and the time they would lose looking for that camp, catching up with Colborne if he had continued on down that road would probably be a futile endeavour.

Scanning the countryside on either side of the road forced them to maintain a more moderate pace. The horses were probably thankful for it, but Harry was not.

A growing sense of dread was haunting him, his mind all-too-readily supplying plenty of images of what might have happened or could currently be happening to his Colonel.

If he hadn't been looking for any evidence of things that did not belong by the side of the road, he would have missed the tell-tale tracks of a tripwire that had been set up, used and broken down again. He pointed.

Juana nodded mutely.

They were getting close to their quarry, it appeared.

To the right, the messenger had said. Harry steered his horse off of the road on that side.

"Enrique?" Juana asked silently.

He turned towards her, waiting for her to continue.

"If I'm not mistaken – I have heard some of the men mention a ravine down this road that used to be used to keep cattle in?" She made it sound almost like a question. "I think some were looking to see if there was any meat still to be had there." To be stolen, she meant. "Do you think…?"

Well, if it had been used for keeping cattle, it probably was a dead-end. Easy to defend if you could make sure that you had a way out again at need. It was definitely a possibility to keep in mind.

Minutes later, he spotted what looked suspiciously like a break in the countryside, not too far away but just far enough to not be obvious from the road unless you knew what you were looking for. That could well be what he was looking for.

With a nod in that direction, he stopped following the road, instead making for that potential ravine in a straight line.

Juana followed him, which was just as well. He might not want her near the deserters, if there were any, but he wanted her alone on the road even less.

He didn't ride all the way up to the edge, stopping to dismount and handing his horse's reins to his wife before be snuck closer on foot, hunched over to offer as little opportunity for anyone to spot him as possible.

If there was anyone there, it did not seem like they had posted lookouts. The countryside up here was too barren to really hide anyone. Still, if they had no piquets posted, they were stupid. Or they might quite simply not be _there_.

He dropped closer to the ground the more he neared that edge, ending up flat on his belly by the time he got close enough to peer over.

Oh, there was a camp down there alright, if you were willing to count two tents and a handful of horses as a full camp. It also appeared that they may have had piquets, once, before what was going on down there by the front area of the space they had claimed had become more interesting than keeping an eye out for anyone approaching.

All eyes were on two men, one in British uniform, one in regular clothing, facing off with tension so thick it was nearly visible between them. Harry grinned. Things were not going well down there, were they?

Better, though, a little away farther towards the entrance to the ravine, he saw an improbably tall, blonde, red-jacketed man held in a vicious grip by an equally tall Spaniard who was muscled like an ox.

Or had to be, going by the way he looked against Colborne.

Well, this wasn't as good as it could have been, but he could have imagined worse situations.

At least everyone down there seemed helpfully distracted.

As he still contemplated his options, the situation suddenly and impressively improved.

 

3

In a different situation, it might have been entertaining to watch those two men, who weren't exactly very clear on which of them was in charge. More precisely, they seemed to have entirely opposite ideas on the matter.

As far as Colborne was concerned, he wouldn't have bothered to try and lead a band of deserters to begin with.

Well, these two apparently did, and neither agreed with the other – at least not at this point and at least not on the matter of a certain captive Lieutenant Colonel.

Colborne would have been entirely happy to relieve them of the problem by stealing away and removing said prisoner from their camp but, alas, he was still very much prevented from that by Miguel behind him.

Even just being held, his posture was beginning to become acutely uncomfortable. He focused on not shifting to try and reduce that discomfort. If he didn't remind Miguel of his job for long enough, maybe the man would get so immersed in the confrontation between those two men that he would relax his grip enough.

The newcomer's horse was standing close enough at hand. All he had to do would be get there and throw himself into that saddle.

Miguel had stood him outside of the little circle. He apparently had neither the presence of mind nor the independence of thought to move Colborne into the circle, where he would have been easier to detain. In this position, Colborne might even have been able to get to the saddle with none the wiser until they noticed the horse running off –if it hadn't been for that one too-large Spaniard.

The argument between the men grew more heated by the second until, apparently out of verbal responses to throw at his opponent, the uniformed man exchanged words for fists and dealt the older one a massive blow.

Having been at the receiving end of such a blow just a few minutes ago, Colborne mentally winced in sympathy.

The man reeled, swayed, and then shifted his weight forward to retaliate in kind.

Cheers went up from among the men. Miguel's hands clenched as if in reflex on Colborne's arms, extracting a very physical wince in response.

Colborne could only see part of the action, much of it hidden by the former soldiers now standing between him and them in order to get a good look, but from what he did see, the members of this little band of rogues had a terrible habit of perpetually switching sides, even in the middle of a fistfight. Cheers and catcalls erupted seemingly at random, the same men who had just cheered for a hit by one reacting equally enthusiastically at the next blow dealt to that same party of the discussion ensuing there.

The wind had picked up and drops of badly needed rain were starting to fall. If they went on for much longer, they could have a veritable mud fight there.

Suddenly, the vice-like grip on him loosened, then disappeared entirely, replaced by a slight push to the side.

Surprised, but fully intending to make use of the opportunity, Colborne moved farther sideways, risking a sidelong glance back at his captor.

Miguel was standing stock-still, breathing shallowly to avoid cutting his own throat on the blade that was held across it from horseback.

The other end of that sword rested firmly in the right hand of Harry Smith, who for all intents and purposes looked as if he had just ambled in on an afternoon stroll, not caring for the steadily increasing downpour any more than all those men busy watching the fighting did.

One corner of Smith's mouth twitched up in a skewed smile, which Colborne answered with a short nod of acknowledgement even as he was already moving towards the waiting horse, grabbing the front of the saddle with his left hand and pulling himself up in one quick and relieved motion.

He fished for the second stirrup and reached for the reins, trying to sort them quickly so he could turn the animal around.

That was the moment in which the first flash of lighting accompanied the moment that the rain turned into a downpour. A deafening clap of thunder followed close up, and Colborne's horse reared, pawing the air for a moment before pivoting around and racing off, away from the perceived danger.

Its rider grabbed for the first and only thing in reach, wrapping strands of mane around his right hand with a quick turn of his wrist while his left fumbled for the reins for another moment.

Another crack sounded, and this not because of the thunder. His flight had not gone unnoticed, and someone had had the presence of mind to try and stop him. He wasn't sure if it was luck that saved him, or the horse's erratic movement.

Colborne felt himself slipping. One stirrup was still hanging loose, bouncing against his foot in time with the horse's surges. He gave up his struggle about the reins and buried his second hand deep in the horse's mane as well, hanging on for dear life and hoping that this mad dash would not end with both of them on the ground, him buried beneath the horse.

He had no idea how Smith was faring. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't turn around to check. At this pace, with this little control, his hold in the saddle was much too fragile for any such antics.

There was nothing left for him to do for the moment than to hope, pray and wait for the animal to calm down enough that he could regain control.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Three things it is better far that only three should know:_

_Where treasure lies_

_Who shares your bed_

_And how to catch your foe_

 

1

Harry had mounted back up and was riding slowly through the entrance to that ravine. The rogue soldiers seemed all too busy watching the impromptu boxing match that had ensued in their midst to be paying any attention.

His sword, so much more silent than a pistol, and nevertheless just as efficient at close quarters, was unsheathed and ready in his hand.

Juana, told to wait for him away at a distance he deemed reasonably safe, had not challenged him on it. Like a good soldier, she knew exactly when discussion was not only futile, but dangerous.

His horse's hooves sounded too loud in his ears on the brittle grass, although he knew in his mind that the men were much too immersed in the show that unfolded itself before them to pay any attention.

As he had hoped, even on horseback he was able to sneak up on the man holding Colborne. The brute seemed more than a little annoyed that his task of guarding the prisoner kept him from approaching the fight and watching it from a closer distance.

Cold steel placed gently against his throat got his attention fast enough, however. It also was a powerful incentive not to make a sound.

"Unhand my Colonel," Smith mouthed near-soundlessly.

Whether his words were understood he didn't know, but his meaning was.

The huge Spaniard released his hold on Colborne and pushed him slightly to the side, as if hoping that getting away from the officer would also speed up the removal of the threat to his life.

Colborne reacted as fast as ever, flowing with the motion as smoothly as if he had expected it – had he? Harry wouldn't have put it past him to have noticed his approach even where the other man had not. Colborne turned as he walked away, meeting Harry's eyes for a split second before focusing on the horse that would be his best chance for getting away.

Still as a statue, Harry sat on his horse, keeping the other man in check while Colborne mounted and reached for the reins.

Lighting broke the clouds, followed by thunder that startled Harry's horse enough to twitch and drive his sword where he had not intended to put it just yet.

Where Harry's mount had reacted briefly, Colborne's newfound steed spooked and, without the firm hand that Harry might have been able to provide in his commanding officer's stead, took off at a blind run.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw one of the men turning, and without thinking he put his spurs to his horse's flanks, tearing at the reins one-handed to turn and follow Colborne into the still-thickening rain.

Shots rang out behind him - one, then another. The third seemed more like an afterthought already.

They were gaining distance fast, and none of the deserters were mounted.

He looked around frantically for Juana, but she had already understood the situation and had set Tiny to racing after the Colonel's horse, which seemed to renew its efforts with each new thunderclap – and they were coming faster and faster now.

Harry spurred on his own, using the end of his rein to add further incentive.

Given the way he was clinging to his horse, Colborne had no control of the beast at all, and the countryside here with all of its cracks and ravines and sudden outcroppings of rock was much too dangerous to risk an uncontrolled run like that – especially since the rain was pouring down, inhibiting the view of rider and mount alike.

With the earth as dry as it was, the sudden deluge was too much for the baked soil to take up at once, and instead of soaking down, the wetness had already formed puddles that only dissolved the upper-most layer of dirt, turning the ground treacherous and slippery.

Luckily, Colborne's horse was picking the easiest way across the countryside, its turns making it harder for its rider to stay in the saddle but easier for Harry to cut across in a straight line until he was at the same height as his colonel.

His bloodied sword was lying on the ground somewhere behind him, where he had dropped it rather than waste time trying to re-sheathe it on the run.

He reached out for Colborne's reins, carefully pulling back on his own at the same time.

"Whoa," he told the horses, trying to get the attention of both at the same time.

They slowed, first to a canter, then a trot, then, after a narrow bend, to a walk.

Juana pulled up on Colborne's other side, both she and Tiny looking drenched but none the worse for the rainy race.

Colborne needed only a moment to collect himself, and took the opportunity presented by Harry's steady hand on his reins to finally shove his right foot deep into the stirrup before taking back control of his horse.

Another flash of lighting, another roar of thunder, and Colborne's horse tossed up its head, though its rider now tightened his grip on the reins and held it – barely.

"We need to find shelter," Harry observed, yelling at Colborne over noise of the worsening storm. "There's no way we can ride these three all the way back to the camp in this weather."

"We passed a shepherd's hut not too far back!" Juana yelled from the colonel's other side.

Harry started in surprise, then cloudily remembered seeing _something_ whip past as he had focused all of his attention at catching up to keep his superior from becoming collateral damage of the horse's fear.

With a curt motion of his head, Colborne indicated for them to turn around.

They did, Harry ready to surge forward and intervene if necessary, Juana smiling brightly at Colborne and apparently ignoring the weather entirely. She had lost her hat in that last gallop, and her black locks were plastered wetly onto her face and down her neck, but she seemed to have not a care in the world for it.

The hut was a small thing, but the roof seemed sound enough.

Harry jumped off, intending to give Juana a hand down from Tiny and instead merely being handed Vittoria before his wife gracefully dismounted under her own power.

The little pug dog apparently had not only weathered the crazy cross-country dash well, but even stayed reasonably dry in its nest of riding skirts.

He put down the animal and tied his horse under the protruding roof, making sure that running off was not an option for it, then repeated the same procedure with Tiny and surreptitiously checked the knot on Colborne's new mount before going to join his two companions.

Inside, the small shelter was bare. It had an empty fireplace that didn't even have any wood stacked for use. It was clearly not prepared for seeing any use just yet, probably hardly used until much later in the year.

Drenched as they were, with no supplies on their persons or horses, they were going to be in for one cold, uncomfortable and hungry night.

Even now, Juana did not complain. She merely settled in a corner, Vittoria in her lap, and started scratching the dog's ears as if they had just turned in for the night in a comfortable tent.

Colborne slid down the wall on the other side of the room, resting his head in his hands, his soggy hair and jacket dripping rainwater onto the packed earth floor of the little hut.

Harry shrugged out of his jacket. The shirt below it was only marginally drier.

His wife had stopped consoling her dog and was now wringing out her own hair as well as she could, using something that to him looked suspiciously like bits of petticoat.

Following her example, he tried using his discarded garment for a towel briefly, before realising that using a drenched piece of cloth on a drenched human being might result in spreading the wetness more evenly, but did nothing to dry it off.

He peeled out of his shirt and used that instead, then contemplated the pros and cons of staying as he was as opposed to putting his wet jacket back on.

In light of the fact that the only female present was his very own wife, who had seem plenty of him shirtless before, he opted against the wet garment, instead wringing it and the shirt-turned-towel out and spreading them on the ground, hoping that they would only be damp, rather than dripping, come morning – or whenever the storm let up enough for them to leave.

Colborne was still sitting the way he had when they had come in, looking as exhausted as Harry felt.

The younger man crossed the hut with a few quick steps, going down on his knees to be at one height with his colonel. "Colborne…"

He raised his head in response, looking at him wearily. "Just leave me alone for now, Smith," he muttered.

Harry wanted to say something, anything that might be of comfort, but he wasn't even certain what he would have been comforting against. The horse racing off in a mortal fright because of the thunder? He could still hear that beast dancing around out there, pulling at its ties.

He thought better of it and returned to Juana's corner, sitting by her side and pulling her close against him as Colborne wordlessly stretched out on the ground, turned over onto his side and apparently went to sleep in spite of his wet condition.

"Colborne…" Juana started in a low voice.

"Leave him be," Harry cautioned, leaning his head against hers. "He wants to be miserable right now."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Enrique?"

A non-committal sound indicated that he had heard and was listening.

"Does he also want to be cold?"

He looked at her, saw the gleam in her eyes and smiled.

In silent understanding they both moved forward at once.

 

2

In spite of the sudden drop in temperature and the drenching he had taken in the storm, Colborne was strangely warm when he woke up.

That in itself might not have been disconcerting. Other things, however, suggested that all was not well at all. The first fact that made it through to his still-sleepy mind was a weight pressing down on one side of his chest, inhibiting every breath. Something was pinning his arms down, squeezing his left against his side and crushing the right one into the ground until he could hardly feel it anymore at all. A smaller weight, digging into his stomach, was starting to become acutely uncomfortable. There was a point of something hard digging into his thigh.

Thick, textured material was brushing against his cheek and chin.

He started fully awake, keeping his lips clamped shut to keep whatever it was out of his mouth, his eyes closed to avoid giving away the fact that he was alert.

Whatever was going on here? He fought the desire to surge to his feet, the action made impossible by the position that he was in anyway. Focusing on breathing calmly, as if still asleep, he considered.

The last thing he remembered was sending Harry away.

Had they been attacked and taken captive? Hardly. He'd be properly imprisoned then and not in this—

Grimacing as he fought not to smile, he opened his eyes as he realised just what was crowding him so.

Or who, to be precise.

Juana lay on his left side, her head pillowed on his chest, snuggled up under his chin, her rich hair caressing his face, her right hand somehow entangled in his much shorter curls, now only slightly damp.

On his other side, Harry had gotten quite comfortable. Apparently he had rolled over at some point in the night, ending up on top of Colborne's forearm. He was now lying on his side facing Colborne, his head on his own shoulder and one of his knees digging into his commander's leg.

Thinking of the discomfort when feeling would return once the other man removed his weight from his arm, Colborne reminded himself that at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Harry wouldn't fare much better, since his awkwardly extended left arm had ended up being turned into Colborne's pillow as well as Harry's. At least they were being efficient.

Each of the two had one arm stretched towards the other, clasping hands over the senior officer's body, just above where a small bundle of fur had made its nest in his jacket.

Trust those two to come up with ideas like this.

From the sound of it, the rain had stopped, along with the thunder. Well, so there was no reason why 'they' could not return to their camp now. Colborne had no illusions about what Harry had meant when he had claimed that 'they' could not ride their horses back all the way to camp in that weather. He and Juana certainly would have had no trouble doing so.

There also still was the matter of that message, now drenched and probably illegible in his pocket, that had been sent entirely in vain because he had been stupid enough to ride into an ambush and get caught. He still had no idea how Harry had known, or why he and Juana had been on that road to begin with.

It wasn't that he wasn't thankful, but he certainly had not set the best example of a proper officer that last day.

He twitched, trying to dislodge at least the dog.

"Vittoria, go sit on your Mistress's husband for a change," he suggested, only to be ignored after being treated to a wide-mouthed yawn. The pug was apparently comfortable where it was.

Elbowing Harry awake was out of the question because the man had circumspectly chosen to bed down on Colborne's right side. Doing the same to Juana, while physically possible, was out of the question for reasons of courtesy.

Well, then he'd have to resort to a slightly more friendly manner of waking the two.

"Smith!" he barked, in a tone that was promising dire consequences if not heeded immediately.

Harry came awake quickly enough, ready to jump to his feet but kept from it by the slight inconvenience of still serving as Colborne's pillow.

"Good morning," he said instead, sounded a little sheepish, but mainly just like Harry.

Colborne suppressed a smile and worked up a growl. "Remove your body from your superior officer, Smith!" he commanded grimly.

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied. "That is, I would, if my colonel removed his head from my arm. It would be highly rude of me to just pull out and let him drop to the floor."

The hand in Colborne's hair loosened its grip and disappeared as Juana, at least, sat up and moved a little way to the side to give him space.

Colborne raised his head to let Harry extricate his arm from under him, and the two men separated and got to their feet, each dusting himself off as they did so.

"What was that supposed to be anyway?" Colborne asked, though no longer able to keep up the act of being annoyed.

"Oh," Juana threw in, "it was so cold last night, so we thought we'd better keep each other warm."

He shook his head at her, but he was still smiling.

"I'm starving," Harry announced. "Let's see if the horses are still where we left them, and get back home."

"You do that." Even though he would be much too late now, he had to at least make an appearance and explain his unexpected absence. "I have something to do first. I'll join you later."

The Smiths, already on their way to the door to check out the horses, stopped and turned around.

"Colonel…" Harry started carefully, his tone matching the sudden look of apprehension on Juana's face, "would that have anything to do with a certain message you received yesterday?"

With a frown, Colborne nodded. "How do you know?"

"That message was forged," Juana blurted out. "I overheard your messenger talk to someone at the camp, and they said they were going to lure you into a trap and capture or kill you! But it wasn't the rogues that did catch you, because the messenger told us—"

"Wait a moment!" he interrupted her with a raised hand. "You overheard them talking about killing me, so naturally you rode right after me without any backup?"

"No!" Juana protested indignantly. "I told Enrique, and he sent the others back to the camp to get reinforcements – he was hunting, you see – and then he went after you and I went after him! Only the reinforcements never arrived."

Harry sighed, looking from his wife to his colonel and back with a wry expression on his face. "They probably went down the wrong fork in the road, just like we almost did. We should have marked that turn somehow."

Colborne shook his head at them. "Oh, just go and check if the horses are alright, and then let's hurry to get back home before they send out another rescue party that can get itself into a fix. And, Smith?" he added, almost as an afterthought, "get yourself decent first."

3

Riding between the two men, Juana recounted the story of how exactly she had learned about the forged message to Colborne.

They were going at a leisurely pace, not exactly dawdling, but also far from racing to be back. Hungry they might have been, but the last day's racing on bad ground had taken its toll on the horses' legs, and they had no wish to make any of them go lame for an extended period of time.

Since Colborne had been relieved of his weapons, they were down to Enrique's pistol – drenched in the downpour to where it was anything but certain that it would shoot at need – and sword, which they recovered easily along the way, since it was highlighted clearly by a ray of sunlight reflecting on the metal.

The ground was still moist, the grass already starting to show signs of recovery after having drunk its fill during the night.

They reached the ravine, abandoned now but for some debris and, notably, two bodies sprawled in the dirt. One was Miguel, his throat inadvertently cut by Enrique's sword.

The other was the ununiformed grey-haired would-be leader of the deserters, the back of his shirt showing a large red stain.

 _He_ was still twitching, though weakly, where he lay close to the rock face of the cliff.

Enrique pointed wordlessly, answered by Colborne with a nod. The two men rode forward, and Juana's husband dismounted to check on the injured man.

A second later, two deserters had materialised seemingly out of nowhere, pistols at the ready. One was pointed up under Enrique's chin, effectively disabling any defensive move he might have been thinking off, since imminent death was certain if that trigger was squeezed. The other was aimed steadily at Colborne.

"So we meet again." The words were spoken in English, but Juana understood at least the general meaning.

The Englishman gave a curt order, and a third man appeared, expertly searching Enrique, taking away his sword and pistol, then waiting for Colborne to dismount and treating him to the same procedure – though without finding anything.

Juana's thoughts were racing. In a moment, they would come for her as well. She might have been able to turn Tiny and race back to the camp, but what if they killed Enrique and Colborne while she was gone to get help? What if they shot her in the back, or shot Tiny as she galloped away, and they had no chance at informing anyone?

And what chance would they have, unarmed, against a majority?

One hand nervously stroking Vittoria's fur and catching her sleeve on the dog's elaborate, multi-layered collar, an idea dawned suddenly.

She cupped a hand under the dog's belly and lifted her down as far as she could before letting her drop the rest of the way to the ground.

Vittoria looked a little confused, but started sniffing around and ambling away from the horse to find a good place to relieve herself, apparently assuming that that was what she was supposed to be doing now.

By now, Colborne and Enrique were both separated from their horses.

Her husband's hands were wrenched back and tied behind his back, tight enough that even from where she was sitting on her horse, Juana winced in sympathy.

One of the men appeared at her side, grasping her horse's reins. "Down," he commanded in Spanish, his voice only marginally more polite than when the two men had been addressed.

She put on her best helpless look – though she feared that 'helpless' was not exactly an expression she had a great deal of practice in showing.

A vague motion of her hand indicated her side-saddle, her riding skirts. "I can't…" she began. "Can you give me a hand, senor? Just –"  a quiver in her voice was what she needed now, "don't hurt me? Please? I won't make any trouble for you!"

Oh but she sounded stupid, raising her voice into a little squeak, as if she was frightened out of her wits – or what seemed to pass for them in most ladies – and hoping that the act was sufficiently convincing.

It seemed to be, since he put away his sword and held out an arm to hand her down.

He did so clumsily, and she was quite certain that if she hadn't, in theory, been entirely capable of dismounting without any male's help at all, she would have fallen.

As it was, she stumbled, making herself grab on to the man's grimy jacket to steady herself. The man in turn reached for her elbow to hold her up.

She shuddered at the touch. She was used to dealing with soldiers. She did not mind that some of them were not exactly given the opportunity to take baths on a regular basis – even some of the officers did not – but this one seemed to be a downright pig.

He misunderstood the shudder apparently, since he increased the contact, bringing up his other hand to brush an errant lock of hair from her face. "Do not worry, pretty lady," he said. "You will not be hurt."

Yet.

Even though the word was not spoken, she could hear it linger in the air between them.

She knew what soldiers running rampant did to women. She had been at the sacking of Badajos, after all. Her unadorned ears still bore witness to the violence targeted at her and her sister at the time.

Still, she forced her lips to quirk up in an insecure, watery smile, as if she fully believed the man and was quite relieved that he would be so very kind to her, and let herself be led away.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Three things never trust in:_

_The maiden sworn as pure_

_The vows a king has given_

_And the ambush that is sure._

 

1

Caves.

There were caves in those cliffs, the entrance well concealed to the point of being near-invisible from the outside.

The three of them had been shoved inside, down a narrow tunnel and deposited against a wall in a side cave where they would be out of the way. They were tied hand and foot, and those ties were in turn strung together, making it impossible for any of them to get to their feet in anything other than an extremely awkward fashion and freeing the deserters from the need to guard them perpetually.

Comfort had not been taken into consideration. Quite the opposite – one could have assumed that the deserters had done all that they could to make the situation as uncomfortable for them as they could. They were most certainly aware that thin but resilient strands of twisted string were a lot more unpleasant than actual rope, as ties went. Even Juana could feel them digging into her wrists, in spite of knowing that she was not bound as tightly as the men.

Enrique's hands were tied behind his back, forcing him into an awkward position half-lying on his side. She could tell that the position was acutely uncomfortable from the way he shifted against the rock below him every now and then, trying to get a little relief.

Colborne's were tied in front, but in ways that made any thought of getting the restraints off futile. The ties were cutting into his arms, biting deeply into already-swollen flesh, and his hands were quickly taking on a decidedly unhealthy colour.

He must have been in pain as well, but he never betrayed it in any manner, his face impassively calm as if deeply in thought, as is sat straight as if merely lounging somewhere during a break.

They had been mainly left alone since they had been deposited there, which also meant that they had no idea of whether anyone had already been sent to ask for a bid on them, or what else they might be thinking of doing with them.

The men had tried to reassure her with quick whispers, and she had smiled at them and told them that she was not concerned, that things would be fine.

She was not entirely certain that they would, but she had a suspicion that she was still more confident about it than either of them.

"It's my fault," Enrique said. "If I hadn't dismounted to check on that man—"

"Nonsense, Smith," Colborne replied decisively. "You did the right thing. Don't start beating yourself up over it. You couldn't have known that's what would happen and there's no point in dwelling on the ifs and whens after the fact."

With a wry smile, Juana's husband conceded the point. "Sounds like someone should heed that bit of advice regarding yesterday, too, Colonel," he suggested.

Colborne returned a tight smile of his own before the two men fell silent, each clearly plotting out various options for escape that required plenty of ifs and whens in their heads, the senior officer intently watching the entrance to their makeshift prison while Juana's husband had his eyes closed in thought.

Juana had her own plot ready – all she needed was for the one variable in her equation to show up.

She kept an eye on the entrance, trying not to start in anticipation at every shadow that appeared, until finally, after a time that seemed far too long to her, a small bundle of fur came plodding in, looking around with a brief sniff and then making a beeline for her.

Vittoria prodded at Juana with her muzzle, tongue flickering out for a few quick licks, not understanding at all why her mistress wasn't greeting her with any more enthusiasm. After the feat of tracking her down, she would have at least expected a good scratch and praise for finding them after they had hidden so well.

Carefully, slowly, since her ties hardly permitted anything else, Juana arranged the dog as she needed her.

That collar, which had come with the pug, was an incredibly intricate affair, made up of layers of decoration to befit the taste of a lady like the one who had gifted Vittoria to her. After sharing life with the brigade for a while, it was somewhat worse for wear. Some pieces had broken off, leaving behind sharp edges that, while not threatening the dog, were a constant trap for the sleeves of those petting or carrying the pug. The collar was still pretty enough, and Juana had not bothered to replace it.

Right now, she was thankful for that, as she started working her ties on one of those sharp edges, focusing on one strand at a time and hoping that no one was going to come in while she was at it, her work made easier by the material they had used.

She said nothing about it, and even her two fellow prisoners did not pay her any attention at the moment, busy as they were with their own plans.

"Smith," Colborne said into the silence, just as she felt the last strand break. "Can you move over enough to get to my pocket?"

"I can – in a moment," Juana replied, faster than her husband could.

Sparing a second to give her dog the much-deserved ear-scratching, she withdrew a small, slender blade from her sleeve and started sawing at the ties around her ankles with it.

In contrast to the men, she had not been searched for weapons. Stupid, really. As a woman who rode and lived with the soldiers, she had taken to carrying a knife just in case – only because she had not met any man in the brigade yet who would have done any dishonour to an officer's wife did not mean that she never would. She was too practical a woman to go entirely unarmed.

Of course, their captors did not know any of that. To them, she was merely another helpless female who relied on the protection of men to keep her safe and who should not have been anywhere near the war to begin with.

Without allowing herself to grin at the men's faces as they watched her, she swiped up and pocketed the cut string and stood, her movement as fluid as if she had not just spent an hour or more hunched over on the hard cave floor.

"Juana, down!" Enrique's voice was hardly more than a hiss, but sharp enough to bring reaction from her immediately. There was only one reason for him to take that tone with her, and that was that disobedience would lead to immediate, dire consequences.

There was only one thing she could think of that would warrant it in this situation, and she quickly draped her skirts to hide the fact that she was unbound.

Sure enough, she could hear the sound of boots on stone the moment the rustle of cloth subsided.

A moment later, a shadow appeared in the entrance to their cell, resolving into one of the deserters.

His face set in an entirely unpleasant grin, he walked up to where she was sitting.

She lowered her head, staring at the ground to her side as if afraid to look at him.

A filthy hand grabbed her under the chin, making her look at the man. He leered down at her, his thoughts and plans evident on his face.

"They're still debating how much to charge for you three," he declared. "I figured I'd take my share of it right away – and I think I'll take my payment in kind."

"Leave my wife in peace!" Enrique growled, drawing a laugh from the man.

"Your wife, is she?" he asked. "Then I hope you've broken her in well and maybe if she's nice enough I'll return her to you in a working condition."

Enrique treated the former soldier to a fierce stare that should have made him whither, not laugh. "If you hurt her…" he threatened.

The deserter apparently found the reaction quite hilarious. "You are hardly in a position to make demands," he declared, grabbing Juana's arm in a grip that would leave bruises and pulling her upright.

If he was surprised at how easily she went up with him, he had no time to contemplate it.

His laughter died as he felt the bite of cold steel against the side of his throat, the first trickle of blood slowly running down into his collar.

"One sound and you are dead," Juana declared icily. "I am not squeamish about seeing blood."

He believed her apparently – at least enough to not try the truth of her words.

That was well enough for him, since she was quite ready to make good on her threat.

Fumbling the longest piece of string from her pocket again, she quickly tied the man's hands behind his back, but the same way as they had bound Enrique, once she had relieved him of his weapons.

"Gag him," her husband told her. "We can't have him call for help."

Sacrificing more of her petticoats, she did as she was bid, then rushed over to Colborne first.

Enrique may have been her husband, but she was more concerned for the older man's hands right now. Those fetters had to come off, and soon.

It seemed that the younger officer realised that as well. At least Enrique did not complain or even indicate impatience in any manner.

Juana tried to work quickly, fearing that someone else would come in, either with the same ideas as the man already bound and gagged on the floor, or looking for him.

With Colborne's wrists swollen around the ties as they were, it was hard to do without injuring him. In the end, she did leave a few nicks in his skin, shallow cuts oozing blood, but the string finally fell away.

She sliced the bonds around his legs with one quick, decisive motion, and hurried to Enrique's side to free him as well.

2

Harry yanked apart his hands the moment Juana had made enough of a nick into the string, with no care at all for the way it bit into his flesh, then made a grab for their captive's discarded blade.

He felt better with a weapon in his hand.

A brief glance at Colborne told him that he older man was not yet in any condition to handle a weapon, so he shoved the pistol into his own belt as he shot to his feet and, stumbling slightly, positioned himself right by the entrance to guard.

Colborne was rubbing clearly numb hands and wrists, trying to return circulation and feeling to them.

"You okay, Colonel?" Harry asked.

He knew that Colborne probably hated hearing that question, but he needed to know where they stood.

"I will be," came the short reply. "Just give me a few moments."

Harry did not turn. He had to simply trust that what his commanding officer said was the truth of the matter, and that not too long from now there would be two of them ready to take on the remaining deserters.

Three, really. If his lady wife hadn't just effectively proven that she was to be reckoned with…

No matter that he hated having her there in harm's way, they didn't have the luxury of keeping her out of it. He knew that as well as she did.

She stood steadfast on the other side of the entrance now, her knife firmly grasped in her hand, her face set deliberately, obviously determined to do whatever it took to see them safely out of here.

Harry spared her another brief look and nod, letting his approval show for only a moment.

The minutes passed, and finally, soft footsteps sounded behind him and Colborne reached for the sword in Harry's grip with his left hand. The skin around his wrist was bruised and scraped, but he had apparently gotten back enough feeling in his hands to handle a weapon.

"The sword, if you please," he said calmly. "I don't think I'm steady enough to hit anything with a pistol just yet."

Noting the slight tremor in Colborne's arm, Harry conceded the point and relinquished the blade, taking up the pistol instead.

"How many are there, all in all?" Harry asked, more to have his own count confirmed than because he really needed to.

"There were seven," Colborne said, standing to keep an eye on their prisoner while the others watched the entrance. "You killed Miguel, we got one here, and one may or may be dead by now…"

"He probably is," Harry supplied. "Those injuries were real when I checked. Even if he isn't, he's in no fit state to put up a fight."

"Let's make sure that this one doesn't make any trouble for us," the Colonel decided. "And then we'll see that we'll get out of here." He turned towards their captive, kept back by Harry's sudden hand on his sleeve.

The younger man had a vicious gleam in his eyes. "Allow me?" he asked. "That was my wife he was going to ravage."

"Leave him alive," Colborne cautioned silently.

With his jaw firmly set, Harry stomped over as Colborne slid into his place by the entrance and bent over their gagged prisoner.

"You're deserved worse than this," he growled. "You have my Colonel to thank for my restraint."

A targeted blow with his fist sent the man reeling backwards, then dropped him unconsciously on the ground. Well, at least Harry was reasonably sure that he hadn't broken his neck as his head had snapped back.

He rejoined the others. "Done," he announced. "Now what? We have four left to take care of."

Colborne mutely raised his free hand and pointed, and they slid through the entrance to their little cave and down the narrow passageway that they had been dragged through when they had been brought in, careful not to make any avoidable sounds and staying close to the walls to avoid casting tell-tale shadows that would alert anyone looking in to their presence too quickly.

They stopped again, backs pressed against the wall.

With the utmost caution, Harry peeked around the corner into the main cave where, as far as he had noted on the way in, the deserters had relocated their camp to escape the storm – as well as, he assumed, whoever they might have brought after their escape on the day before. The way the entrance had been camouflaged, they would have been entirely safe in here, leaving any party come to apprehend them wondering where they could have gone without as much as leaving tracks.

A deserter in a formerly French uniform was alone in that cave, preparing a recently dead hare.

Harry's mouth watered at the thought of the meal that could be made of it. He hadn't eaten in more than a day, and while it wasn't the first time, he did not enjoy going without meals.

He considered shooting from where he stood, but feared that a shot would bring the others running. They had only one pistol between the three of them, and the rogues had the benefit of being familiar with the passageways through the rock here in ways that they certainly were not.

Coordinating with looks, they moved forward, trying to get close enough for a more silent encounter.

A boot scraped on loose rubble, loud enough to make the Frenchman look up.

The hare dropped to the ground as the cook jumped upright, pistol almost flying into his hand.

To Harry's relief, Juana had had the presence of mind to stay back, making sure he wouldn't have to worry about her. She was still safely covered by a rock outcropping by the entrance to the main cavern.

Colborne and he, however, were uncovered and clearly in sight.

With a cold smile, the Frenchman pointed his pistol at Colborne.

"Put that down," he told Harry without even looking at him. "Or we will find out how much he is worth to the other side dead."

Harry glanced at his colonel, seeing the slight shake of his head. Colborne would not be the reason for their recapture. He understood, but neither could he permit the man to shoot him.

He drew back his arm and started to crouch, as if ready to obey the command, then did what he hoped was the least expected course of action and, in a sudden burst of movement, uncoiled and _threw_ the heavy pistol forward, aiming for the deserter's head.

A stone would have been easier to throw, but at the relatively short distance, the unlikely missile worked as well.

Surprise barely had the time to register on the man's face before he dropped.

Colborne was shaking his head at Harry. "You're crazy, Smith," he said, but with the tiniest sliver of approval in his voice. "Downright insane."

Harry shrugged as he moved forward to check on the man, collecting his pistol and kicking the other one towards Colborne. "Less noisy than using it the other way," he declared.

 

3

They trussed up the Frenchman and dragged him to keep their other captive silent, unconscious company, then snuck back into the main cave and on to the opening into the ravine.

Colborne held on to his sword, though he kept the spare pistol ready in his belt. His hands were still tingling with pins and needles on and off, but at least they weren't cramping too badly. Blood oozed sluggishly from the nicks and scrapes around his wrists, slowly trickling down his arms and leaving marks on his shirt. It was nowhere near bad enough to be reason for concern, though, and he ignored it. He knew he would feel much worse the next morning, or even later that day, but he hoped that by then he would be safely back home with his men.

He was not a vengeful man, but at that moment he would have very much liked to treat that deserter to some of the same treatment that he had been given.

Or maybe he should have been thankful that he had not, in the end, been shot in the foot or elsewhere to keep him from running?

They found the first of their three remaining rogues by literally running into him by the entrance of the cave. Not paying any attention to where he was going on account of voicing his displeasure with the man who had appropriated command in the camp and continually looking around as if to make sure he wasn't overheard doing so, he only realised that it was not his own comrade waiting for him when Harry shoved his weapon up under his ear and hissed a silent warning to him to come quietly or see if he could dodge a ball.

The man opted for the former, extending his life by a few days at least – they were deserters after all, and not likely to survive being dragged back to their respective armies in chains for very long.

At this point, Colborne was reasonably sure that they had not yet sent messengers to collect bids for their captives. As far as he knew, only two men were left loose in the camp, and one of them was the Englishman who had seized command in the absence of the older man who was now a corpse by the entrance to the cave. It had in the meantime been dragged aside just far enough not to be tripped over and probably serving as a silent, cold warning for the others to not threaten the Englishman's position. He did not think that he would have ridden off, leaving someone else to take charge of the camp, so he had to be somewhere.

The same formations that shielded the entrance from easy view from the outside made it hard to get a good view of most of the ravine from the entrance.

They split up, Colborne giving silent signs to indicate for Harry to go one way while he went the other.

The horses were back outside, even though they had been in the cave when they had first been dragged in earlier.

Inching along the wall, hoping and praying that there wasn't a sentry up in or on the wall who would spot his bright red jacket and use him for target practice, the Colonel made his way towards the picket line. He had very much had his fill of being shot at and hit from above for this war.

Hardly able to believe his luck, he spotted the Englishman saddling a horse. Either the man was more stupid than he had thought, or he had other reasons for wanting to leave the camp quickly.

Judging by how fast he was working, he probably had his reasons, whatever they might be.  If he had had to venture a guess, Colborne would have suggested that he probably had realised that his grasp on the men was slipping and decided to jump ship before everything came crashing down on him and he found himself with a sudden knife in his back.

It didn't help him much, however, since now he found himself with the edge of a sword to his throat just the same, followed by the unmistakable push of a pistol against his back as he tried to turn around.

"I wouldn't," Colborne suggested amicably. "My hands are none too steady right now, but I think with the muzzle right up against your spine I'll have a chance at hitting the target anyway."

He waited out the string of curses that erupted in response.

"Come now," he said when the other man finally fell silent, out of breath, or expletives, or both. "We're going back to that cave. Nice and easy. And don't try any tricks, or I promise you, I _will_ shoot."

He would, given the slightest incentive, though he suspected that, as it was common among deserters to begin with, the man would have a certain cowardly streak that would keep him from risking it.

Sheathing his sword, Colborne freed his left hand to disarm the man as he steered him away from the horses and back towards the caves.

Juana, waiting by the entrance followed him back in. He gave her a quick smile.

"Juanita, dear ~~,  would~~ , would you tie this up for me?" he asked her, his tone suggesting he had just asked her to sew on a button for him.

She was just testing her first knot when Harry came through the entrance, shoving before him the last of the deserters.

"This one tried to sneak away," he announced, beaming at Colborne. "I was the better sneaker, though. And I see you got yourself one, too.

"Can't let the two of you take all the credit on your own, Smith," Colborne mock-growled. "Now stand in line and wait your turn, and once they're all properly secured, we can be on our way. I'm sure we're sorely missed by now."

Harry's initial nod turned into a headshake. "I'd gladly get going," he said. "Nothing I'd love more, actually, but I fear there's another one of those storms coming in – and fast. We might be better advised to stick around until it's past."

His voice dropped to a mutter, though still clear enough for the Colonel to make out his words as he continued. "Stupid weather – first we get no rain at all for weeks, and now it's makin' up for it all within 24 hours. I'm _hungry_."

The desperate emphasis on the last word made Colborne laugh.

"But Harry," he pointed out. "All you have to do is finish cooking that meal our friends have so helpfully started preparing, and we may yet eat before we depart."

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_Three things trust above all else:_

_The horse on which you ride_

_The beast that guards your sleeping_

_And the friends there at your side._

 

1

Satisfied that their captives would not repeat their own feat and get loose to surprise them, Colborne returned to join his friends in the main cave.

Harry had brought in the horses to keep them safe from the storm that was by now raging outside. Juana was now brushing them down – or at least those of them that didn't seem likely to trample all over anyone unfortunate enough to stand near at the next clap of thunder.

Vittoria lounged by the fire, letting it warm her pelt. The little dog was entirely unaware of the role that she had played in recent events.

Colborne stopped to give her head a scratch as he passed, then settled where he wouldn't be in Harry's way while having a clear view of the passageway that led deeper into the caves, _just in case_ , his pistol resting by his side. It was nice to have his own equipment back – one less thing that he might have to explain once they got back.

The smells wafting up from Harry's cooking were delicious – though that may have been at least partially due to the sadly empty condition of his stomach.

"Patience," Harry cautioned when he caught Colborne's glance in his direction. "Turning these _varmints_ ' supplies into something delicious takes time."

He smiled to himself at the thought of Harry Smith, of all people, demanding patience.

Juana came over to him, her self-appointed task finished for the moment, carrying a basin and rags.

"Hands," she commanded as she knelt by the Colonel's side.

He considered a protest, telling her that it was nothing and that he didn't need her to fuss over mere scrapes and scratches. After a moment's consideration, however, he shook back the sleeves of his uniform jacket and presented his wrists.

Juana probably needed something to keep herself busy as well, and he didn't mind being her excuse for that so much.

He hadn't really had a good look at those injuries since just after Juana had cut him loose, when he had had to verify that they weren't serious.

For all that they would likely heal without even leaving a scar, Colborne had to admit that his wrists were quite a sight right now.

They were looking worse than they had during his first inspection, his wrists still swollen and bruised along the marks left by the thin rope ties. Wide, raw bands of welts ran around his arms, edged in places by shallow nicks left by the tip of the knife that had cut him loose. There had not been a great deal of blood, not as the injuries he was used to seeing went, but what there had been had been thoroughly smeared around.

He suppressed a wince when Juana teased the sleeve of his shirt back, unprepared for the sudden sharp pain of a piece of cloth begin parted from the wound it was stuck to, however superficial that wound may have been.

With infinite care, Juana dabbed at his skin, washing off dried blood and slowly exposing the actual extent of his injury.

Relief was clear on her face when she realised that the underlying damage was far less severe than the outer appearance had suggested at first glance.

Colborne held still as she bathed his wrists in cool water, keeping a carefully neutral smile on his face. She didn't need to know just how good the coolness felt on those scrapes. He didn't need to worry her any more by betraying the discomfort they caused.

Once she had cleaned him up to her satisfaction, she wrapped his wrists in layers of soaked rags, further easing the ache. Hopefully, they would bring down the swelling, too.

"Thank you, Juanita," Colborne told her earnestly when she finished, reaching out to give her hands a brief squeeze. "Now if your hellion of a husband will finish that lunch of ours…"

"I told you to show some patience!" Harry answered just as he was coming over, carrying bowls of food. "Here you go. And I don't want to hear any complaints."

He wouldn't have – they were far too hungry for complaints at this time.

They ate in greedy silence, listening to the thunder as it grew fainter, farther away and less frequently.

By the time they had finished eating, the rain had dried to a trickle again, and Colborne stood and stretched. "Let's be on our way then, shall we?"

*

They must have been quite a sight, had anyone encountered them on the road: two Englishmen and a Spanish lady on their horses. Colborne was back on the one he had taken from the camp the day before. Harry led a string of the deserter's horses by a lead rein, complete with a string of deserters tied to them in a way that gave them a choice of walking calmly along or be dragged.

Halfway home, the reinforcements Harry's friends had tried to send after them caught up with them again – they, too, had been caught in the weather after searching down the wrong fork of the road for too long to make it back safely, and had once more spent time casting about for the missing officers and Juana that morning.

"You have the darndest of luck, Colonel!" one of them observed. "Another man lured into a trap would come back in shackles, or dead! You come back with an assortment of criminals that you just so happened to catch along the way."

Colborne tried to shrug off the comment with a smile, but Harry would have none of that, launching into the tale of how exactly they had accomplished the feat, while leaving out a few minor details that did not entirely fit his tale of their heroics.

"Two of you against five of them!" one of the men said admiringly. "That is quite—"

"Two?" Colborne interrupted him with raised eyebrows, followed by a fond look at Juana. "There were three of us – we were very nearly evenly matched."

2

Uncertain of whether Harry would send Juana back once she caught up with him, his friends had been clever enough to assemble their rescue party silently, not letting word get out to the camp at large and risk her safety if – when – she returned alone.

With a little luck, the messenger's contact in camp may not have realised yet just how far his luck had run out.

"So, which tent was it that you overhead them in?" Colborne asked Juana once they had been relieved of their horses and prisoners.

She pointed.

Harry and Colborne exchanged a look.

"We'll take care of that," Harry promised his wife with a quick kiss. "If his tent is still here, then so is he, most likely. Let's just wait for him."

Colborne ambled over and twitched aside the tent flap to glance inside, his weapon ready in his hand again. "No one's home," he announced.

"Juana, love, will you wait for us somewhere safe?" Harry suggested.

His wife bristled at the idea. "Safe?" she asked sharply. "Are you implying that I would not be safe with you, Enrique?"

"Well," he began, looking around for Colborne, hoping for some support.

The older officer laughed. "Oh, just let her come along," he said. "She's proven she can handle herself as well as any man many times over these last two days – let her see it through to the end."

All three of them ducked into the tent, taking up position on either side of the entrance, where they wouldn't be seen immediately by someone entering.

They waited patiently, but they didn't have to wait for very long before steps and voices sounded outside.

Two men came in, sparing not a glance to the side, the topic of their conversation turning the moment they were no longer exposed to all and sundry in the camp who might be inclined to listen in.

"I'd've just loved to see the Colonel’s face when he rode into our people's camp and realised the message he'd been sent had not been quite what it was made out to be," one of them laughed – a nasty, vile sound. "D'ye reckon they're keeping him tied up somewhere, or did they just shoot him the moment he came in sight?"

"I dunno." The second man's laugh was no more pleasant than the first one's. "Though if they just shot him on sight, he never got to figure out what an idiot he is."

"Huh." A moment's consideration. Both men had now passed them by and were helping themselves to a drink. "That'd be too bad. Thinking far too highly of himself, that one is."

"Yeah – but you know what? For all his high-and-mighty attitude, when he—"

"Gentlemen," Colborne announced loudly, his pistol held steadily pointed at one of the men just as Harry's was at the other. "I thank you for those insights and the immensely enlightening conversation. Now, if you don't mind – turn around please. Slowly, though, unless you would like to try out just what it feels like to be shot at close quarters."

Both man turned, shock evident on their faces as they found themselves looking into the muzzles of those two pistols trained at them.

"Juana." The Colonel's voice was still as calm as if he was talking about a bit of camp gossip over a nice, quiet Sunday luncheon. "I think we have heard quite enough already, but for the sake of completeness – is one of these two the man you overheard yesterday?"

She nodded, pointing at the first of the speakers. "That one, Colonel." She, too, sounded as casual as if she were announcing her choice of dress for a ball, rather than pointing out the traitor in the camp. "I am quite certain of it."

"Very well," Colborne replied, motioning for the entrance of the tent with a quick jerk of his head. "Gentlemen, if you please – proceed and leave this tent … slowly. Do yourselves the favour and don't give us any reason to shoot you."

At the close distance, it would even be possible to shoot with the purpose of leaving the target alive for long enough to be questioned. With the messenger dead by Harry's shot, their testimony was their best chance at finding out just who else in their camp may have been working for the other side.

The men seemed quite clear on the fact that if they tried anything, they would be in for a very painful – but hardly immediately fatal – experience, and obeyed with the reluctant air of someone still considering their options and coming up sadly empty-handed.

Harry moved through the tent flap first, walking backward to keep the men in view and herding Juana before him to keep her out of harm's way just in case they _did_ try something.

Colborne followed last.

3

"Well, Colonel," Juana said cheerfully as they were walking back through the camp, their traitors safely under arrest, locked up and guarded, ready to be tried. "I believe that there is still the matter of your horse needing replacement."

Colborne grimaced. There was, indeed, that.

"Unless, that is, you want to keep the one you captured from the deserter," she suggested.

He shuddered. "That wild creature," he told her emphatically, "is more along the lines of something your dear husband would prefer, Juanita." He shot Harry a glance, daring him to add anything to that. "Also, I need a horse that everyone else's can actually keep up with when we charge into a battle. It wouldn't do for me to lose them because I am that much faster."

"Well," Harry threw in. "I might be able to find a good one for you, Colonel…"

Juana beamed at him. "But Colonel!" She announced. "I know just the horse for you! He looks quite impressive, tall and strong, and he's reliable and will do anything for you – why, in spite of his size, even a lady would be able to ride him. Well, he's not all that fast, really, but you just said he shouldn't be, and—"

Harry blanched as he realised just what horse Juana was about to offer to Colborne.

"Juana!" he interrupted her sharply. "That is impossible!"

"And why would it be impossible, my husband?" Juana asked, a challenge in her voice.

The man needed to consider that for a moment. "Well…" he finally decided, "one, you can't just give away my horses like that. Two, that is no horse for an officer! Certainly not for the Colonel who runs this brigade! He's just not _suitable_!"

"Oh really?" the woman shot back. "Not suitable! Weren't you the one who spent hours and hours listing all the many qualities of that horse to me? Not suitable!" Her eyes were blazing coldly. "I'll show you not suitable! You would have had me on that horse forever if I'd let you!"

Colborne smoothly moved between the two, separating them before they could come to blows – Juana had been known to threaten Harry with his own sword on occasion after all – and, putting an arm around each of them, steered them towards his own tent.

"Now, now, Smith," he said, interrupting another string of justification. "Don't be like that. I want to hear everything that Juana has to tell me about this wonder-steed of yours."

Listening to the two go on as they walked, Colborne chuckled to himself. Oh, but it was so good to be home, among friends.

It was particularly good to be among these two friends, no matter where he went.

 


End file.
